


Reflections

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Gen, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2012-12-31
Packaged: 2017-11-23 01:23:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It had been several decades since he'd encountered another Immortal. He worried about that a bit; that, and a gentle pulling he felt at his soul every once in awhile. A pull that was getting more pronounced every day. A pull telling him the Gathering was near, and he must play the Game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflections

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 1996 under my other pseud, Shelley Wright. I think this was my first story for Highlander, but I can't be sure.

He leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He had been hiding for nearly a millennium, only taking a head every few decades or so.

To keep his strength up; to keep him sharp. In practice. A faint niggling at the back of his mind warned him that he _must_ get out, _must_ prepare, for the Time was near.

They were getting harder, those who challenged him. Harder, and fewer. So rarely when he ventured out into the world did he feel the Buzz of another Immortal. He didn't fear them; fear was the wrong word. Anticipated, perhaps. He sighed, flipping open the ancient book and fondling the equally ancient pen in his hand. Rolling it over and over, remembering, thousands of years ago, when paper and pen were invented. The first written word...or so they thought. Little did they know  _he_ had been writing and publishing for decades before that, recording his life, his friends, his lovers, his enemies. Those he had bested; those whose Quickenings he now possessed. So many.

It had been several decades since he'd encountered another Immortal. He worried about that a bit; that, and a gentle pulling he felt at his soul every once in awhile. A pull that was getting more pronounced every day. A pull telling him the Gathering was near, and he must play the Game.

Putting pen to paper, he jotted down the sights around him, recording the images as the last rays of the sun beat down on the tropical island. He preferred the island to any of the larger continents; they had grown crowded, and the moon hadn't appealed to him. No, he was born on Earth, and here he intended to stay. He had almost thought, 'intended to die'. What a morbid thing to think about now, when the Gathering was obviously very near. Despite the passage of hundreds of years, the image of Duncan MacLeod entered his mind. Not the Duncan he knew; the one who first discovered who he was, after his lifetimes of hiding. No, this Duncan was much older, much wiser, and had gotten even better with his sword. Until he ran across an Immortal nearly half his age, who managed, somehow, to best him. He had heard of Duncan's death from Amanda, who had sadly shaken her head, and vanished for a hundred years. Last he had heard, she was in New Babylon. But that was over six hundred years ago. He couldn't be sure if she were still alive.

He chuckled ruefully. If she were still alive, he might have to fight her. His smile faded, to be replaced by a concentrated frown. He didn't want to fight Amanda. She was good, very good, but that wasn't the reason. She had helped him, once. Helped him try to save a woman he had loved, very deeply. A mortal. Helpless to stop the ravages of age, or disease, or death...he squeezed his eyes tight, and a faint image of Alexa teased at his senses. He had given her the world, in less than seven months. And she had taken his world, shattered it, in less than a year.

Surprised, he felt a trickle of a tear slide down his still-young face. Even after thirty lifetimes, the ache of losing loved ones remained. Suddenly, he was angry. His brow furrowed as his eyes darkened. Who was it, anyway, who said there could be only One? Why did he have to be born Immortal? "Why can't I die!"

The vestiges of his scream echoed through the abandoned house, and he slumped again against the wall, shaken. He had never thought that before. He had never cursed being Immortal. What had changed? The approaching Time had unsettled his nerves, that was true. But for this to hit him now, this hard? Because he had lived so long; because he had outlived absolutely everyone he had ever known in his extended life? And now he was doomed to either live forever, alone, or die, alone. With no one to mourn his memory. Who would remember his name?

The chuckle returned, along with a wry smile. Which name would they want to honor? Inez Squire? Jacques LeFette? Charles Quicken? He particularly liked that one; always the punner, he was. Lucien? Reginold DeBussey? Adam Pierson? Or would they honor the one he was most known for, Methos? Or would they mourn _him_ , the man, and forget his name?

His eyes slowly refocused on the present, and he bent to the task at hand, until it grew dark. And he felt the Buzz of another Immortal.

He put the book down and quickly picked up his sword. He hadn't felt the presence of another Immortal in years, and now one was calmly walking up the stairs of an abandoned building, as if they knew exactly where to find him. His grip tightened on the hilt of his carefully polished sword, and he settled his footing squarely. The door swung open slowly, revealing a figure obscured by shadows.

"Your name, if you please," Methos warned, wary for a first strike.

A sword gleamed dully in the half-light, and the figure moved into the room. "You first," the voiced hissed, roughly. The door slammed shut.

Methos managed a curt laugh. "You came to me. Rules say you first."

"Rules," the man spat. "I take it you've never killed on Holy Ground, either." The sword swung in a perfect circle, slicing the air with a soft whoosh.

"Can't say I have...but it's been a long time," Methos carefully answered. The voice sounded vaguely familiar...but then again, everyone sounded familiar to him. Too many voices, too many faces to keep straight. "I wasn't referring to the Game Rules, though. I was just being polite."

"Chivalrous, are you?" The sword swung again from the man's hand, and Methos started. That move was definitely triggering his memories.

"I was born long before the Age of Chivalry," Methos replied, his voice growing hard. "And I'll thank you to remember why we're here."

"Oh, there's no doubt about that. I haven't felt another Immortal in nearly two hundred years. I think our Time's about up. Don't you?" The man stepped forward suddenly, striking Methos in the leg.

He bit down a cry, staggered back a bit, then regained his footing. He was already healed by the time his sword was at the ready. "Yes. So let's get to it." Methos struck out, bringing the tip of his sword in low and hard, nearly gutting the other man. A quick parry and they parted, walking slowly around the other. A few tentative strikes, to test the other's abilities. Skill taught thousands of years ago lashed out, and Methos attacked. Pushing the other man back five feet, then ten, he artfully twisted his sword and stabbed the man in the side, blood billowing from the deep wound. Gasping, leaning to the left to try to stench the flow of blood, his sword wavered in the air. "If you think one little wound will stop me..." it was his turn to lash out, cutting deeply into Methos' leg, through it, then twisted the sword out.

Red flashes swam before his vision, and Methos grunted with pain. But the other Immortal was close enough that Methos' sword sliced across the other man's chest.

Both men limped around the other, the air heavy with their mingled gasps of pain. But both healed relatively quickly, and the unknown Immortal began anew. Thrust, parry, driving Methos back until he could go no further, then backing up as Methos drove him into retreat, they went back and forth, swords clashing, sparks raining down on them both.

Sweat poured down Methos' back, falling into his eyes, and he blinked rapidly, feeling his sword grow slick in his hands. Blood and sweat mingled on the hilt, some his, but mostly his opponent's. It felt like he had been fighting for days, his strength starting to leave him, his muscles screaming in pain, his arms and legs full of deep and minor contusions. The other Immortal's blade sliced his cheek open, and blinded by pain, Methos pushed his sword through  
the other man's chest. Through the other man's heart. A hand went to hold his cheek, feeling the skin flap against his palm as he held it in place. The strange Immortal fell to his knees, then back, dying. Methos stared down at him. He could take his head now, when he was dead. Who would know?

He would. Regardless of how much he had teased MacLeod about his damn chivalry, he would fight this fairly. He hadn't always, and he didn't like it one bit, but sometimes, you had to fight dirty.

But he didn't have to this time.

The unnamed Immortal inhaled suddenly, jerking upright, nearly impaling himself on Methos' sword.

Methos glared down at him, flicking the tip of his sword at the stranger's lying near his hand. "Pick it up or offer me your head."

"Who are you?" the other man demanded, not moving.

"Who are you?" Methos shot back, finally able to take his hand off his face. It had healed sufficiently, and he now forgot about it. "Where did you come from?"

"Canada."

Methos narrowed his eyes at the man. He didn't sound Canadian. And Canada had fallen quite a few hundred years ago. "What's your name?"

The stranger shook his head fractionally. "Not important."

"It is to me."

"Why? So you can record my name along with everyone else's?" The stranger's eyes flicked to the book lying on the floor a few feet from him. "Those you've killed? Do you get a kick out of it, huh? Replaying each of our deaths like some ancient bedtime stor-" his angry diatribe was cut short by a sword across his chest. Blood soaked the ruined shirt.

"I record things because no one else does anymore. Because the Watchers gave up long ago, and no one else cared enough to bother with us. I'm doing this to remember everyone. I don't want anyone forgotten. Is this making any sense to you?" Methos shouted, not realizing he had raised his voice.

"Douglas," came the quiet reply.

"What?" Methos was breathing heavy with his anger, and didn't register what the other Immortal had just told him.

"Douglas Virlas. From New Quebec. Not quite four thousand years old." Douglas' eyes held Methos' steadily, calmly.

Methos didn't drop his stance, but did lessen some of the tension in his body. "Methos. From...somewhere in what was once called the Middle East. Over eight thousand years old." A strange smile quirked his face. "And I have heard of you."

"I would hope so," Douglas said softly, his eyes now shining.

"I'd hate to have lived this long and not made a mark on the world."

Methos suddenly turned serious. "You will leave your mark. But you must choose. Either pick up your sword, or give me your head."

Douglas' hand curled around his sword. Methos stepped back, allowing him to rise. And the fight began anew.

~~~~

The sword slashed downward, cutting through tendons and muscle and bone, neatly severing the head from the body. The victor stood over the now decapitated body, awaiting the Quickening. Breathing hard, holding his sword still downward, both hands gripping the handle. Nothing happened. He glanced up, then around at his surroundings. The air was turning misty, curling around him and soothing his battered body. He sighed, closing his eyes against the soft caress. The sword slipped out of his hands as the Quickening finally overtook him, blinding flashes of light, rolling thunder, windows, glass, anything breakable shattering into a thousand shards, peppering his body until he glistened in the harsh light.

Bolts of energy shot through him, pulsing through his body, jerking him about like an old rag doll. He dropped to his knees, keeping his eyes closed against the sensations pummeling his body. Esctacy, pain, love, hate, joy, sorrow, all poured through him and into him, bathing him in emotions too overpowering. As the last of the Quickening faded, he fell to his hands, again gasping for air.

He looked around. He was lucky the ceiling hadn't caved in. The support beams looked like they had been through a tornado. Twisted, gnarled, groaning in protest as they struggled to keep the building upright. Scampering to his feet, Methos grabbed his sword and his book, looked vainly for the pen, but the house around him warned him of it's imminent collapse, and he hurried out, sword in one hand, book in the other.

Outside, he turned just in time to see the old building collapse into itself, sending out billowing dust in all directions. Coughing, Methos moved away, stumbling over trash in the street. He tucked his sword carefully into his overcoat as people started to gather, as they had always wont to do, to gawk at the sight. He slipped through the crowd, just as the local enforcers arrived.

~~~~

The sky looked different. That's what he noticed first. It looked...glassier, bigger, somehow. Then, as he walked through the forest, he noticed more things; how he could hear the wind whispering, hear the animals chattering to themselves.

Thank the gods he hadn't been able to understand them; if he had, then he would have known he had gone insane. As it was, he wondered if this was part of the Quickening he had taken a few days ago.

Douglas Virlas. Ever since he had left the island, Methos had been walking. Walking to where, he couldn't say. But instead of taking a hovercar, or a high-speed transport, he chose to walk...and walk...and walk. Now he was churning his way through a dense forest, somewhere in the European peninsula. That was all he was sure of. Especially now. After Virlas' Quickening, things - himself, the Earth around him - were all different, somehow. Then, as he came into a clearing, he understood. He stopped in his tracks, his eyes sweeping the crowd. The crowd of Immortals. The crowd of every Immortal who had died. He licked his suddenly dry lips.

"Welcome, Methos," one greeted him. He recognized her; she was Gwendyln of Gaudin. He didn't remember taking her head, but he had taken the head of whomever had. And he knew his name, as well. And who had taken his head. It hit him; he knew every one of these people. Every Immortal. And then he understood. They were the Judges. His eyes strayed to the sudden part in the crowd, seeing for the first time, his opponent.

The Time of the Gathering was Now.

The End


End file.
